Feast of All Souls
by CaladriaHaru
Summary: At two different grave sites, two young masters contemplate the loved ones they have lost while their butlers look on.  Sentimental and painful at times.


Character: Alois, Claude, Ciel, Sebastian

This fiction was first published for blackbutler(dot)net for Thursday Crack Ficlet thread 6: Kuroshitsuji Characters in a Graveyard

Author's notes:

1. The Ciel in this is Manga!Ciel because…Angela/Ash just mucked around with some things that interfered excessively.

2. The Feast of All Souls or All Soul's Day is celebrated in Western countries on November second. On this day deceased loved ones are remembered.

3. It is almost a year after Ciel's parents were murdered. Alois and Ciel don't know each other yet.

-CaladriaHaru

* * *

"_Feast of All Souls"_

A dead town.

The doors of the homes and shops rot off of their hinges; the grasses grow in the cracks. Parchment leaves the color of autumn sunrises and sunsets skitter through what used to be a place full of souls. The stillness is moved only by these lone visitors, streaking along on a bed of crisp breezes, pulled from the trees on top of a hill overlooking the town.

The hill is alive now with activity. A lone coach has hazarded the overgrown path to this perch. The butler in black climbs solemnly from the driver's seat and opens the door of the carriage.

A young man emerges. He is fair-haired and blue-eyed. Once upon a time those eyes laughed in this place, but there is no laughter now. He shivers in the breeze even though he is wearing a warm black coat with a high collar. Once he climbs down from the carriage he is instantly rooted to the spot; booted feet refuse to take a step towards the destination. His hands reach around himself to hold his arms, to brace himself.

He stares at the edge of the overlook, his eyes clouded, heavy with emotion. The leaves swirl in front of him. They make a shushing sound very like person, and the boy's eyebrows draw together in pain.

"Master?"

The butler is waiting for his orders. He is neither happy nor sad. There might be something like curiosity as he gazes upon the young man as if this behavior is very strange for him; he appears frozen in a state of nostalgic overload.

Finally, the young man looks up and clears his throat. His eyes are suddenly full of barely-checked madness, his mouth holding back a scream.

"Get _that thing_, Claude, and follow me."

The butler nods and proceeds to the back of the carriage. The young man with the high-collared coat and the eyes of madness finds that his feet will move now. He strides purposefully forward, almost daring the pain laying in wait to hear his voice, feel him walking this place where no living thing has walked in many years, and drag him down.

He stops at a spot and stares at the ground, his eyes boring through the layers of dirt and clay. This place has the best view of the town. It also is the highest place above the town giving the illusion that when one stands upon that spot he is the king of all he surveys.

Now he surveys a dead town.

"Here."

It is a breath so light it is gone almost before his lips can utter it. He winces, perhaps wishing he could recall the word that has such a ring of finality about it.

"Are you certain?" There is nothing remarkable about this place, but the young man takes a step back as if the ground had the power to steal his soul.

"Of course I am certain!" His face is red. There is too much emotion here. Of course it is this place. Of course of course _you idiot_. His face is expressive in his exasperation and disgust, but he appears prepared now to receive the _coup de grace_

A loud, warm thump.

Where the young man's toes ended, the butler in black thunks a large grey marble marker. It is rough-hewn at the top, but its face is polished to a mirror shine. On the front is engraved one name and nothing more:

"Luka Machen"

There are no _bas relief_ angels or crosses. There is no ornamentation of any kind, despite the fact that the young man is richly dressed and could have afforded such luxuries. It is a simple stone, but it is weighty both in size and emotional substance.

The young man in the black high-collar coat stares at the stone as if it appeared out of nowhere, as if he had never seen it before.

He has never seen it before in this place. Somehow it makes everything real.

His mouth is open and it trembles. He clutches at his chest. He is in pain. His eyes are wide for a moment longer in the silence as the first leaf falls across the stone's face, claiming it now and forever more as a permanent part of this hill.

"Luka."

There are tears now, but they are silent.

"I remember…I remember when I put you here with these hands because…because there was no one to help me. And you were cold, and this ground was cold. Do you remember? I cried and cried."

The boy puts a hand to his mouth and closes his eyes to better see the past which has returned to life. "Remember when we would look down from here and we'd watch the villagers together? That old woman, that old man, the baker…he was such a bastard. We used to plan things here. We used to plan what we would do when we ruled the village…"

The young man shakes. He can't take the pain anymore. He collapses on the marker and wraps his arms around it desperately. He presses his cheek to the top of the stone and cries loudly, his tears bathing the marble that bears the name of Luka Machen.

"Oh, Luka, Luka! I promised you someday I would bring you a nice stone, didn't I? And…and look at it. It is nice work, isn't it? It's nice…I picked it for you with that old man's money. I took it all, Luka, and I became a king for you. Luka!"

His sobs are pulled from deep within his chest. The young man is holding on for his very life, fingers turning white, chafing.

"Luka, I'm such a terrible brother. I'm so terrible. I don't care what Uncle Arnold's insufferable preacher friend says. I don't care if you are in a better place. I want you here. I want you _here_ with me. Even if we suffered…even if we suffered….little brother…"

The young man's voice trails off into incoherency. His head is bowed, the golden locks shaking with his grief, shoulders slumped.

_I will not forget!_

_

* * *

_

At that very moment many miles away, another silent hill is interrupted by the tread of two visitors.

The wrought iron gate is opened by a black-clad butler who ushers in a young man in a black cape and black top hat with a walking cane. The early November breeze brushes the dark ash-colored hair from his face revealing a silk eye patch over his right eye. His face is expressionless, but he appears to know his path well.

The butler follows in silence behind the young lord. They must navigate around several weathered tombstones and mausoleums bleached and made rough by the passage of time. Finally the young man in the black cape and top hat stops before a pair of more recent markers. They are plain and bear the names "Vincent Phantomhive" and "Rachael Phantomhive".

He is very young, but his eye is cold. He clasps both hands upon the top of his walking stick as a lord would do, though he looks very young for the title.

There is a moment of silence.

"When were they placed?" he asks. The tone of his voice is akin to one asking the question "what is for dinner?"

"Just this morning."

The young man nods. "And the Undertaker said that the ground had settled enough? I don't want to have to replace them in two years."

"Indeed, he assured me that the ground would be settled and firm enough by the Feast of All Souls, today, although…" The butler places a hand to his chin as if contemplating the wisdom of his next words.

At the sudden end of the sentence the young man turns and gives him a sour glance with his one blue eye.

"Although?"

"Although he was a bit disappointed that you wanted no ceremony with the installation. If I may say so, I believe he was simply unhappy he would not be seeing you before he departed from his work."

The young man snorts lightly. "Why in the world would I need a ceremony for placing two pieces of stone?"

There is silence for a moment.

"Well, what is it? I can hear you ruminating behind me," the young man growls.

"I believe he was kindly taking into consideration the fact that Young Master was not…able to attend the funeral of his parents."

At this the boy in the black cape and top hat winces slightly. His eyebrows draw together for the briefest second. He seems too preoccupied with a dark memory to be able to make a firm retort right away. Eventually he clears his throat and finds his voice.

"Gravestones are just a marker," he glances down to his left hand, eyes alighting on the blue-stone of a ring on his thumb. It is clearly too big for him and seems suddenly as weighty as the memorial before which he stands.

"Yet, the earthly remains of the people who gave you life are here," the butler continues.

"Remains are just that, Sebastian. _Remains_. The image of a rotting body may give others comfort, but it is no more my father and mother than you are."

The butler raises an eyebrow and then appears to be slightly amused at whatever symbolic connection he imprinted upon the statement.

"Indeed. In some countries on this day, loved ones visit the cemetery to wash the gravestones by hand."

The young man with the black cape and top hat turns back around and gazes at his butler with exasperated curiosity.

"Whatever for?"

"They believe it honors their deceased relatives. They also believe that the spirits of these beloved relatives will follow them home for a meal," the butler explains academically.

"That is absolutely absurd. In the first place, ghosts and such do not exist."

"Says the young man who only recently made a contract with me," the butler's eyes suddenly glow a vibrant crimson, the pupil elongating to a slit.

The young man blinks. Now he has nothing to say and he is angry. He reaches a hand out imperiously towards the butler. "Let's get this over with and be gone. I am sick of this day and I want a cup of tea."

The butler bows at the waist, a hand on his heart. When he stands straight he suddenly holds two bouquets of white roses. The young man takes them both and turns to the graves. He places one bouquet on each as his butler observes.

"I believe I recall you stated that white roses were a favorite of your mother's and that your father bought her 50 white rosebushes for her as a wedding gift."

The young man is silent, but his silence speaks volumes.

He turns from the markers, one hand upon the brim of his hat to secure it against a sudden gust of wind. He stares at the butler as if daring him to find a crack in the armor, any display of weakness.

The butler smiles because he sees none.

The young man goes first, his thoughts boring down through the earth.

_I will not forget!_

_

* * *

_

The young man and butler depart the cemetery.

Many seasons pass. Ten years go by, twenty, one hundred. The markers are worn to the point that only a rubbing with a piece of black charcoal can show the names:

"Luka Machen"

"Vincent Phantomhive"

"Rachael Phantomhive"

No one returns on the Feast of All Souls anymore.

FIN


End file.
